Rosemary and Thyme
by SoujisBlackCat
Summary: Just England, thinking about how darn hard it is to love America. The title obviously comes from something, but it's not too directly related . . .


The yard was impressively still and unbelievably quiet. There was no breeze, which was rare for a spring day, but good anyway, because it kept the chill from becoming unbearable.

England sat on the back porch, enjoying a cup of earl grey and some scones, which he'd baked yesterday. He always made lots and offered them to people, then got turned down and ended up eating them all himself. It wasn't bad; more for him, after all, but he still felt a little lonely on days like this, having tea by himself on the porch with seemingly not another living thing around for miles.

Suddenly, a little sparrow flew down from the roof and landed on the lawn, hopping about and pecking at the ground. Not much for company, but at least someone for England to share tea with. He broke off a crumb of his scone and gently tossed it in the bird's direction. It hopped back, then forward again, pecked at the crumb, shook its head, and hastily fluttered away.

"Even the birds reject me," England said, to no one in particular. He took another sip of his tea. "Am I really that pathetic?" It was a joke, but a dark one that showed his current state of mind.

"_If you care, you could just tell me. And if you don't, say _that_ and I won't bother you again!"_

It had been a while since America had yelled at England, instead of the other way around. But somehow it had happened, and because of it, England had been in a deep blue funk for a week. He'd missed a few calls from America – ignored them, actually (thank God he had caller ID) – and though he felt a little bad for denying contact, he knew it would be far worse to talk and still not be able to answer him, one way or the other.

_If you care . . ._

Oh, he did care, he was sure of it now, that if he could choose his future he'd spend all the rest of it with America. Yes, America was an incorrigible brat, a hopelessly optimistic, perpetually annoying cretin. But there was something uplifting about his brightness, irritating as it sometimes was. He was pure and sweet yet fiery and determined, and never boring. Even being pissed off was better than being bored. And his eyes. Those gorgeous blue eyes that you could lose yourself in for hours. But then, that was a totally irrelevant point. The main thing was, America was equal parts beautiful and unbearable, and England didn't know what to do about it.

_You could just tell me . . ._

There was no way England could tell him. The idea of them in a relationship was ridiculous; they'd always be bickering back and forth, America defending his stupid ideas and useless ideals, and England berating him for being an idiot. Hell, if England admitted how much he really liked America, the young nation would probably try to go mushy on him and be even more annoying. Or worst of all, maybe they would be happy for a while, and then America would get mad and leave again. That trauma was not something England wanted to relive, or even think about. The memories hurt too much. To tell him would be an awful idea.

_And if you don't . . ._

And if he didn't . . .

The hopelessness of it struck him; it was that can't-live-with-him, can't-live-without-him feeling that made his mind go spinning in endless circles, always coming back to the conclusion that he just didn't know. He didn't know what choice he should make; he didn't know how America would react to anything; he didn't even know the feelings in his own soul. There would be consequences for any choice, but was he strong enough to keep loving America through them?

_I should say something to him. I should call him up right now and tell him everything I think of him,_ he thought, for the hundredth time this week. And then he thought again of the incessant arguments, the little things America did that always ticked him of, the many nights he'd spent in a drunken stupor after they'd had another falling-out, and worst of all, that day in the rain . . .

Great. Another teatime wasted by thinking and thinking about unpleasant things and getting nowhere.

England picked up his cup and plate and stood to take them back to the kitchen. Love, he thought, was an impossible thing. But he would get an answer from himself eventually, he knew it. He had to.

The rest of his day was fairly uneventful, mostly due to the fact that America didn't call. He decided he would forget about America until tomorrow. If he slept on it eight nights in a row, surely he'd figure something out.

***

My inspiration here, essentially, is as follows:

**Love imposes impossible tasks,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,  
Though not more than any heart asks  
And I must know she's a true love of mine.**

It's a relatively unknown verse of that old British folksong. Come on, don't tell me you don't know it! Here, have the full lyrics: .

Unless, of course, that link doesn't work. Hope it does, because pretty much everyone else has only the first four verses, the wankers!

The fic didn't fit the tone of the song in the end, though . . . oh well . . . and it was my first attempt writing anything other than Russia/Lithuania. And yet still so introspective . . . I need to branch out. Ah well . . .


End file.
